


Worm On A Hook

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Trenchcoats, sam is a worried younger brother, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:30:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is struggling to cope with the loss of his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worm On A Hook

He turned the sodden trench-coat over in his hands, running his thumbs and fingers over every crease and contour of the material, trying to imagine it filled, imagine it back over the shoulders it belonged on. 

He brought it to his face and hesitated.

Gone.

Gone and he was mourning. The mattress twanged as his fist made heavy contact with it. He spent half of his time taking life and the other half mourning it. It was little surprise that more often than not he considered giving up, setting aside the salt and the guns and the iron rods and trying normality on for size. It was beyond a joke sometimes. It was as though the air they breathed was toxic. Around every corner something else with black eyes or black blood was lurking, waiting to take a swing at them like kids with a piñata at a Mexican themed restaurant. But without him, his brother, the others who tagged along, signing and paying contracts in blood, without this job, he was only risking even more lives. More than the ones he took. Maybe even them all. 

Maybe. 

Thoughts like this made his nights restless.

He buried his nose in the coat and inhaled, breathing in the scent of its previous owner, letting the all-too-familiar smell fill his skull like a rush of blood until he was dizzy and weakened with a sickly nausea. He gripped tight until his knuckles turned a startlingly chalk pallor. In his mind’s eye he was digging his fingers into arms, tugging, to pull him away, to pull him close. 

To push him out? 

He sighed; groaned with regret and anguish. 

A gentle knock on the door.

“Hey, man…you okay?”

The younger brother stood slouched in the door frame, expression flickered with concern that decided to camp there along his brow.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

A worried gesture towards the coat. “You still have that?”

“Suppose I do.”

A beat. A sad nod. No other words were exchanged. No other words needed to be. When the atmosphere switched like that and the aura around his shoulders turned the colour of soot, it was a good idea to leave the hunter alone, let him simmer in his own melodrama and issues for a while and cool him off with a beer and calorie-packed food, maybe some dodgy cartoons just to sweeten the deal. The brother would come back later and try the plan. It might work. It might not. 

The door was closed again and gentle footsteps on the carpet faded, the tall shadow giving way to a sliver of yellow light that seeped through the crack under the wood.

He bundled up the coat and lay back, watching the ceiling, a name on his lips over and over with every breath; a mantra, as though in fruitless effort to conjure him back into the room, to summon him from the depths of the reservoir as he slipped into murky half-dreams and reflections of the past.

The brother found him early in the morning, still fully dressed atop the duvet, eyelids firmly closed with the crumpled tan trench-coat beneath his head as a pillow. He opened his mouth to wake him, but, deciding against it, left a chilled can by the bedside and left, leaving the dark to cradle and comfort the hunter until his mind decided that reality was better than the guilt-ridden fictions it invented on its own.


End file.
